ode to a gannet

The gannet appears
untouched by the storm. She glides,
banks, crests and turns
eastward into the gale, as
effortless, balletic
as always. For a moment
her cruciform wings, above
the surface, carve open
the sea. She is perfect
here. This is home. But
fishing in the rain
is unrewarding. The turbulent
waters don’t reveal
easily. And I have not seen any
plunge-dives, like arrows
from the sky today. Just
the blade-viscious rain
thrashing at my window, sending shivers
inside. While outside
the gannet appears untouched.